


Dressed Up To Play Pretend (unfinished)

by midnighhts



Series: Fictober 2017 [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Costumes, Drabble, Fictober 2017, M/M, Post-Canon, me me big autumn mood, pink!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2019-01-08 12:27:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12254385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnighhts/pseuds/midnighhts
Summary: "Solo," Illya says, his drawl thick and pointed, "what the hell you doing?""It's chiffon, Peril."DAY 2 PROMPT ISCOSTUMES





	Dressed Up To Play Pretend (unfinished)

**Author's Note:**

> aaaaaaaaa i wrote this instead of sleeping  
> and while i tagged this as napollya, it isnt Super™ explicit. like its there but they aint making out. flirting ??? whoumst
> 
> but yeah! catch me on [tumblr](http://late-nighhts.tumblr.com) and please support me if u can ! ! ❤️
> 
> ps: this is unfinished but im posting it since its October 4 OOF. ill finish it soon i hope

"Solo," Illya says, his drawl thick and pointed, "what the  _ hell _ you doing?"

Knowing the American for this long will desensitize any kind of people to even the strangest and random of occurrences -- something even outside the realm of American grandeur and destiny's general disregard for order, and something more phantasmagorical if it will strike Solo's fancy. Too many a time has Solo brought a mostly illegal thing into the mostly neutral grounds of the U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters, resulting in at least two threats of resignation, and maybe murder. Too many a time also has Solo returned back to their base of operation during a mission with a painting or an expensive vase when he was  _ supposed to be scoping the area, damnit _ .

While the American's greed is a feat in of itself, his impulsivity is another thing entirely -- which is why Solo is smiling sweetly up at him, sitting in a pile of. . . _ pink _ .

"Do you like it?" Solo asks. He scoops up a handful of whatever pink atrocity he just ever casually decided was perfect for his next project, and offers it up to Illya. "I thought it was quite lovely."

Illya doesn't regard the gesture. "Is this joke?"

Solo's face morphs into something hurt, but his mask is too pristine to fool Illya. Also the man is a gigantic, dramatic baby, and while he hadn't explicitly predicted Solo would do something like this, it must’ve been a subconscious thing because he’s really not that surprised.

“Please tell me you’re not getting fussy over the chiffon,” Solo says, and, of course, the pink mass just has to be something for Solo’s next three-piece suit.

“Solo,” Illya starts, and Napoleon grins with his usual troublesome smile, “I may not understand your fashion choices, but that?” He points at the. . . _ chiffon _ . “Not your colour.”

Most people would laugh. Most people would wave him off, pat him on the arm, laugh it off because he’s a six foot, two hundred pound Russian agent giving fashion advice. Not Napoleon, though. Solo smiles wide, until the corners of his eyes start to crinkle.

He doesn’t laugh. It unsettles Illya -- though this  _ is  _ the most quiet he has been in a forever, and the respite is something greatly welcomed amidst all of his mindless banter. He smiles, wide and almost natural. An honest smile.

Illya doesn't try to hide his shudder. “What?”

“You made a joke,” Napoleon says -- a statement. No big spectacle, no sweeping gesture, no confetti.

Is the Cowboy serious? His creepy staring and doll-like smiling. . .Just for that?

Illya rolls his eyes, suddenly more serious. “Am I not charming enough for jokes?” His tone is flat and almost mocking, but the joke is clear enough in it.

A bubble of laughter escapes Solo, and he finally smiles normally again, something akin to a sneer halfway meeting a smirk. A jackal’s grin as many have said before. His laugh is so very _ Napoleon _ . He laughs the way he smiles, or the way he preens in front of the mirror in their office.

“What is my colour, then, Peril?”

Now, it would be easy to diffuse the situation and sidestep the question, but Illya feels bold. “You always look good in blue.”

A ripple of emotion flutters over Solo's face for a moment before it's gone. (Spies and their damn acting.) Solo grins right after, smoothing out his facade like a picnic blanket while setting out all the nuances in plastic containers on the spread. He'll serve some champagne and wine, too, to mess with your mind and lower your inhibitions.

“Aww, Illya,” he coos just as he metaphorically reaches over to serve a sweet cookie, a dessert as an appetizer. “That was so nice of you to say.”

He mouths something in a gaudy display;  _ look good  _ is the only thing Illya manages to catch.

“I want to take back,” Illya grouses. He turns his body, facing away now but not moving away from the American. “You never look good.”

Solo just grins, beaming and squirming amongst pink fabric like a child on a Christmas Day advertisement they caught last year on a mission in Hungary.  _ Boldog karácsonyt, _ it said in bold letters surrounding the child.

_ Boldog karácsonyt, Solo, even if it is still October. _

“I still heard you, Illya,” Napoleon singsongs.

Has Illya mentioned how annoying Napoleon is? Oh? Not yet? Well, get ready. Firstly, it started when--

“Well?”

Illya turns his head. Can he please have an internal monologue without being interrupted for once? “Well, what?” he shoots back at Solo.

The American pouts, placing a hand on his thigh, resting his fingers on some of the atrocious fabric. “Aren't you going to ask me what this is all for?”

Illya glances at the room, which is now some sort of den full of  _ pink _ . In the corner, their untouched case files still stand in their official tilted stack. Their plants are still alive, too, nothing broken or whatever. Everything else, though? Pink.

Fuchsia, if he's going to be incredibly anal about it.

“Нет,” Illya says with a shrug. “Спасибо.”

Solo whines, “Illya, that's no fun.”

“We are international spies, Solo,” he retorts. “No fun.”

“Well, I'll tell you anyway!”

Illya rolls his eyes. Of course he will. It will be a long and tedious affair, and after it, none of them would have been impacted by Solo's trivial news. Thanks for wasting his time, he guesses.

“It's actually for Gaby,” Solo says like it isn't an arbitrary piece of information. “She wanted pink. The woman gets what she wants.”

Illya makes a noncommittal sound.

“She'll be half-naked.”

Illya raises an eyebrow in a very What-the-fuck manner. Bewildered may be a better term, or maybe even accusing, but What The Fuck is a more acute feeling.

Solo nods, though he looks away. “Well, I'm glad that got your attention.”

“This is for mission?” A mission that Illya has not been briefed about, more importantly. He'll have to have a word with Waverley; the last time they let an agent go this deep into the heat of it all was in Paris, and they barely managed to reach base before the explosives went off. Well, technically, it was in Hong Kong where Solo had to steal a precious necklace off a wealthy heiress, but the American would've done it anyway.

Solo must've noticed something in his tone because he sobers up to something less serious. “I was kidding, Peril.”

“About the mission?”

Solo smiles. It's very reminiscent of a pesky fox. It's his signature smile, his design, his modus operandi. He leans forward, using his hands to balance himself forward. It would look weird for anyone else to roll around in obnoxiously pink fabric, but they aren't Napoleon Solo.

“It's for the U.N.C.L.E. Halloween party,” Napoleon says slowly. His eyes flutter oddly. “You will come, right?”

Illya stares. “There is something in your eye?”

Napoleon sits up. The glimmer in his blue eyes don't change, but there's a different intent in his smile. Amused now, not predatory.

“That wasn't a  _ No _ ,” he says.

“Wasn't a  _ Yes _ ,” Illya counters. He crosses his arms over his chest, pulling his sleeves taut. He needs to visit the tailor soon. “Besides, I don't like parties.”

“Don't be a sourpuss, Illya,” Napoleon says, chiding while also sounding like a whine. “

**Author's Note:**

> [ Boldog karácsonyt ] is [ Merry Christmas ]  
> yo mcm is hungary
> 
> [ Нет, срасибо ] is [ no, thank you ]  
> pronounced [ net , spasibo ]  
> the more you know #Russian101
> 
> ill finish this soon !! i swear. maybe in nobember hopefully. i rlly liked where this was heading


End file.
